


only the best care

by NotPersephone



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: F/M, Hannibal is overdramatic, Jealous Hannibal, Misunderstanding, Therapy Years, but it is because he loves her
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:49:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23431207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotPersephone/pseuds/NotPersephone
Summary: Hannibal smiles to himself as he nears the entrance. His hand reaches out to ring the familiar bell, but the gesture is interrupted by the sudden turn of the lock on the other side of the door. The flutter in his chest increases with force at their apparent coinciding gestures. His smile turns brighter as the door begins to open but dims almost instantly, the light extinguished from his face.The face that appears in the opening is not Bedelia’s. It is a man’s face.
Relationships: Bedelia Du Maurier/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 18
Kudos: 45





	only the best care

The finely tuned engine purrs almost soundlessly then comes to a stop as the car pulls to the driveway of a solitary house. The long fingers resting on the steering wheel tap softly against its surface in an unusually frank expression of excitement.

It is not like Hannibal to let his emotions show so freely and the gesture appears to be subconscious and oblivious to his mind. As the car comes to a stop, the fingers cease their movement as well, having reached the end of their anticipation. Hannibal takes the key out of the ignition, but before he exits the car, he appraises himself in the overhead mirror, ensuring his coiffure has retained its immaculacy. He smiles to his own reflection, pleased with his appearance; he always is, but it is especially relevant to him now. It is the most important hour of his week and it is pertinent he looks his absolute best.

Finally, he exits the car, carrying on with the inspection by buttoning his jacket and straightening its non-existing creases. There is a genuine spring in his step as he walks towards the front door, as if he were lifted off the ground by the swarm of butterflies currently beating in his torso, yet another peculiarity that goes somehow unnoticed by him. As if they were always there.

The bewitching presence he has been awaiting so keenly is a mere wall away; Hannibal smiles to himself as he nears the entrance. His hand reaches out to ring the familiar bell, but the gesture is interrupted by the sudden turn of the lock on the other side of the door. The flutter in his chest increases with force at their apparent coinciding gestures. His smile turns brighter as the door begins to open but dims almost instantly, the light extinguished from his face.

The face that appears in the opening is not Bedelia’s. It is a man’s face.

The quiver vanishes, at once replaced by an alerted stare. Hannibal’s eyes flare as his gaze meets the man’s.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” the man startles, not expecting to come face to face with anyone on the other side of the door. The feeling is very much reciprocated, but Hannibal’s surprise is overshadowed by wary vigilance.

The man offers him a friendly smile as he walks out of the house and passes Hannibal. His eyes follow the man's progress until he disappears from his line of vision and only then, he notices the sight revealed behind where the man was standing a few seconds ago.

It is the sight he has been waiting for since last week but not the sight he has expected.

Now Hannibal is visible disconcerted. Standing in the hallway is Bedelia yet her usual elegant attire has been replaced by a robe. The silk fabric is pulled tightly around her figure, but it is only a robe, nonetheless.

“Hannibal,” she seems slightly surprised by his presence, putting a further dampen on his spirits and sending his joyful heart into a plunge of dismay. “I have not realised how late it is,” her hand reaches to her temples in a gesture of odd unease, securing the strand of hair behind her ear. Her normally flowing locks have been temporarily constrained and gathered in a loose bun.

The whole vision is both confusing and strangely pleasing to Hannibal.

The identity of the mysterious visitor remains unknown, sending sharp stabs of apprehension through his mind, but there is an undeniable thrill in seeing his psychiatrist in such a domestic setting. It is not a sight he is privy to, no matter how hard he yearns for it.

And he wasn’t supposed to be privy to it now, he gathers with a bitter pang of sorrow.

“Please, come in,” Bedelia extends her hand in a gesture of invitation, striving to retain her professional manner despite her current appearance.

The twitch of his mouth almost unnoticeable, Hannibal takes a step forward, the previous lightness of his movements now deflated significantly.

“Would you mind waiting a few minutes while I change,” she says, leading him to the office as per usual, the hand wrapping closely around her edge of her robe as though suddenly conscious of its flimsy nature.

“Of course,” he responds, noticing the last deviation from the norm. Her silent steps betray the lack of her stilettos, their decisive click usually serving as an accompaniment on the way from the entrance to the office. Now she is depleted of these extra inches, making Hannibal towers over her more than normally. He is unable to stop staring at her miniscule stature. The sight is very endearing, and Hannibal wishes he could savour it more, but sadly, Bedelia leaves him in the threshold and swiftly proceeds up the stairs to her bedroom. His eyes follow her petite silhouette until she vanishes behind the corner. He hears the door closing and he steps into the office, several questions burning fiercely in his mind.

The room feels empty without her presence, even if the absence is momentary, the welcoming space feeling hollow in its quietude, further stirring his stormy musings. Hannibal gives their vacant chairs a wary side glance. Sighing, he moves to stand by the window, looking at the garden beyond. His thoughts instantly wander back to the man whose presence is still a vexing mystery. He was young, too young as far as he is concerned ( _too young for Bedelia_ ), well build and pleasant looking, even if his blonde hair were slightly too long to be considered appropriate. The man’s demeanour was courteous but betrayed nothing more. The same cannot be said about Bedelia’s attire. Hannibal’s mind flares up with a mixture of jealousy and upset, the concoction washing the pleasurable aftertaste of Bedelia’s appearance away.

_He has never considered her parading her lovers so openly in front of him._

Hannibal frowns, the blue of the sky behind the window turning grey in his eyes. He knows he is jumping to conclusions, but this appears to be the only logical explanation. His heart heavier than ever, he abandons his spot by the window and moves to sit in his usual chair, the cushion sinking beneath the weight of his burden.

The sorrowful contemplation is interrupted by Bedelia’s entrance. She has been gone for no more than 5 minutes, but in Hannibal’s desolate mind it seemed like an eternity. Yet he is still utterly impressed that she has managed to achieve such an immaculate look in such a short time. A fitted blouse of deep burgundy and a black pencil skirt have replaced the robe, topped with the familiar clack of heels he has been missing before.

“I apologise again,” she settles herself in the chair opposite Hannibal, letting her now loose hair swoosh over her shoulder, “My previous engagement finished later than I expected.”

_Previous engagement._

Hannibal’s mouth presses with unease, the undisclosed nature of her relationship with the young man still gnawing at his mind. And he knows making a direct inquiry is out of the question.

“That is quite all right,” he says instead, letting his fingers stretch slowly on his thigh.

“Of course, we will make up for the lost time,” she shifts in her seat, crossing one leg over the other, making the late afternoon light catch in the tress of her hair, illuminating its golden hue.

This image usually makes Hannibal’s heart swell, yet his mind’s turmoil now prevents him from enjoying it fully.

Bedelia starts their session habitually, asking about the events of his week, but Hannibal finds it hard to engage, offering only monosyllabic responses.

“Is there something troubling you Hannibal?” she asks after another failed attempt to engage him in a proper conversation, head tilting to the side, his behaviour piquing her interest.

“No, I am fine,” he responds at once.

Bedelia’s brow lifts as she contemplates his too swift of a denial. Hannibal is aware he sounds hardly convincing. While she continues to survey his reaction, he opts for a safer option of remaining silent.

“It is your hour,” she presses on softly, “we can discuss any topic you wish to,” she pauses to mark her words, “or not discuss at all.” Her eyes gleam with a gently laid lure, awaiting his reaction.

_Any topic._

Hannibal swallows a snigger, his thoughts racing still, the one thing on his mind being the one subject he cannot bring up. He inhales slowly and continues to remain silent, even though it is as telling to Bedelia as any words. He could never mislead her with any façade.

“You are perturbed by the disruption to our routine,” she states after a moment, as expected, seeing through his petulance all too easily.

_If having run into her lover can be considered a disruption._

Hannibal’s lips press tighter, but he says nothing.

“At times, it can be hard to perceive that a therapist has a life outside of the weekly hour of session,” she carries on, her tone retaining its clinical coolness but her eyes glisten with persistent curiosity. “But you should understand the circumstance, finding yourself on the other side of this contractual engagement on a daily basis.”

An almost imperceivable scowl passes over Hannibal’s face as she once again reduces their relationship to its rudimentary aspect.

_At least he does not have paramours leaving through the same doors as his patients._

Another, more prominent frown settles on his brow.

“I try to ensure my personal and professional life remain as separate as possible,” he maintains, not daring to comment further.

Bedelia’s head moves slowly from one side to another, her sharp gaze fixed on Hannibal, watching with attentiveness his evident struggle, like a fish dangling on a hook with the line resting firmly in her hand. The gas flame eyes narrow ever so slightly as her grip on the reign tightens and she debates whether to alleviate his suffering. A vibrant flicker signifies her mind made up.

“As do I, but this occurrence has happened to be beyond my control. The muscle in my shoulder contracted painfully while I was swimming, a remnant of an old skiing injury,” she pauses, allowing for her words to sink into his mind, “Luckily, my massage therapist managed to accommodate me at such short notice. That was his only available time,” she finishes her account with another tilt of her head, eyes closely surveying the effect of her explanation.

And she is not left waiting long. The startle washes over Hannibal’s mind in an icy instant, its drops clinging to the features of his face in its apparent astonishment.

He thought he had taken every possibility into account, but he had not considered _that_.

The corner of Bedelia’s mouth turns up in a half-concealed amusement at his reaction.

“I apologise again if the circumstances caused you any distress. Let me assure you that it has never been my intention to affect your therapy in any way,” she adds slowly, the final pull on the line, watching the hook sink and him struggling in the corner of his own making.

“That is quite all right,” he utters at last, words as awkward as the present disarray of his mind, “I am glad you are no longer in pain.”

The twist of the lips lifts higher as her smile becomes more prominent in her delectation, but enjoying his consideration, nonetheless.

As initial shock of being mistaken recedes from Hannibal’s mind, he begins to assess the new information.

_It was no lover then._

The fact should relieve the strain of his heart, but somehow the heaviness persists.

_A massage therapist._

All the implications of the revelation slowly arrange themselves in his thoughts.

“May we continue?” her firm yet gentle tone guides him back to the present moment and the proper topic at hand, him. That is why they are here, after all.

“Yes, of course,” Hannibal offers her an amicable smile, determined not to let any more of his turbulent thoughts stumble to the surface.

Despite his incessant objections, he tries to engage in the conversation. Yet as much as he adores listening to her speak, he finds their exchange trivial. None of the mundane events of his everyday can be considered significant, especially comparing to the still unprocessed information, brewing and foaming intensely in the back of his mind.

Hannibal cannot help but venture back to the vision of Bedelia clad in nothing but a robe; the ever so pleasurable image now spots dark under shades. The outfit, or lack thereof, suggests a significant state of undress. It is only natural, given the purpose of a massage, yet the idea of the man’s hands on Bedelia’s body, _any part of her body_ , turns his mind boiling. He might be a so called professional and the hands are the tool of his trade, but Hannibal is certain they are inept and not worthy of touching her.

_No one is._

Lost in his deliberations, he barely notices when their hour comes to an end.

“Red or white?” Bedelia asks, standing up from her chair, her gaze still probing and alert, no doubt cataloguing all the notions reflected in his eyes over the course of the session.

“Red, I think,” she answers her own question unexpectedly, “You could benefit from something more robust.”

Another half-smile plays about her lips as she leaves the room and open-mouthed Hannibal.

Once again, he knows his pretence has not fooled her in the slightest.

She returns shorty and they proceed to stand by the window, the constraints of their chairs left behind for another week, cradling their respective glasses of wine. Hannibal’s long fingers gently twirl the stem of the glass, watching the bubbles settle on the surface of the ruby liquid, akin to the thoughts in his mind, but he is aware it is a temporary respite. The unvoiced concerns will rise with force like the hidden notes in the wine.

He cannot leave it unspoken.

“I am sorry to have heard about your injury,” he cradles the glass anew, giving her a measured side glance.

“Thank you, Hannibal,” she responds with a gentler smile on her lips, her previous inquisitiveness satiated, at least for now, and her tone dulcet. It has been a productive session, for her, at least.

Hannibal smiles as well; he loves any expressions of her softer side, especially when she willingly offers them for him to savour.

“I am partially to blame, I lost time while swimming and over strained my muscle,” she volunteers an unforeseen further glimpse into her life, “I am feeling better now. The massage helped to loosen the knot,” she finishes by taking a mouthful of her wine.

Hannibal’s grip on the glass hardens as the thorn of the issue presses into his mind afresh.

“I am glad to hear that,” his jaw tightens as he slowly advances to the most crucial concern, “I do hope your therapist is _effective_.”

Bedelia’s eyes light up anew as he reveals the core of his bother so openly.

“Yes, he is,” she responds, “He specialised in sport related injuries. He came highly recommended. I have been very satisfied with his help.”

An abrupt twitch in Hannibal’s cheek does not help in hiding his disdain.

“What is his name?” he asks, hoping to be feigning casual inquiry well enough.

The spark in Bedelia’s gaze flashes immediately.

“Are you looking for a message therapist?” she retorts, turning to face him fully, “You do appear to be holding some tension in your shoulders.”

She smirks seeing him instantly flustered.

“No,” he presses on, trying to retain his composure, “I was simply concerned about the quality of service you were receiving.”

“I appreciate your regard,” her tone becomes colder, as always when she must reinforce the set boundaries, “I can assure you it is professional,” her fingers tap against the surface of the glass to emphasise the firmness of her words.

“But not the best,” he cannot stop the words pouring from his lips, brimming there for so long, “You deserve only the best care.”

Another tilt of her head indicates curiosity returned.

“Do you know someone better?” she asks, twirling the glass in her hand.

“Yes,” he says surely, standing taller all the sudden, “Me.”

The hand halts and Bedelia’s eyes become wider in the brief surprise at the unforeseen veer of the conversation.

“As far as I know you are a surgeon and a psychiatrist, Hannibal, not a message therapist,” she recovers her coolness immediately.

“I am a man on many talents, Bedelia,” he takes a step closer to her, denoting his sudden forwardness.

“Better than a trained professional?” she asks coldly, but he is sure he can discern a shadow of a flush on her cheeks.

“Yes,” he states with unaffected confidence.

Hannibal expects her to put an instant dent in his self-assurance, but Bedelia says nothing which he takes as a favourable sign.

“I simply believe you would be looked after more suitably by-” he hesitates, searching for the most appropriate word.

“A colleague?” she interjects, a pointedly placed jab to undermine his persistence.

“Someone who cares for you,” he carries on, yet her comment reaches its mark as his tongue slips more than he intended. “Someone who cares for your well-being,” he rewords himself at once, but it is for nought.

His confession makes Bedelia avert her gaze, the blush on her skin now in full bloom. Hannibal finds his cheeks equally burning.

“Regardless of your supposition, I am receiving the best possible provision of care,” she remarks with unbroken self-command in her tone.

“Not from someone who does not know you,” he urges.

_Someone who is not me._

He expects a swift rebuke, but none comes. Bedelia falls silent again.

“One can call it a personal touch,” he adds with a smile, allowing the fingers to trace the length of the glass’ stem.

This time Bedelia’s eyes do not look away, but instead follow his gesture with unexpected interest.

_She is thinking about it._

Hannibal’s heart gives a joyous thump, feeling lighter for first time since his arrival. He lets the gesture linger, allowing her mind to fully embrace the notion of his attentive hands on her.

Is she imaging the feel of his touch, the soft pressure of his fingertips as he kneads her muscles with utmost heed, and the relief it brings her? More than just simple relief, but _pleasure._ He would give her so much pleasure.

His thumb and forefinger stroke the ball of the glass with unnecessary consideration. Bedelia’s eyes widen for a brief second before she turns her gaze away once more; fresh flush on her skin matching the colour of her blouse betrays her flutter. Hannibal says nothing, revelling in the bliss of the fortunate turn of the evening.

“I appreciate your concern for me, Hannibal, but that would be considered a breach of our patient/doctor contract,” Bedelia speaks at last, her voice now devoid of its previous chill, falling back on the safety net of their official arrangement.

Yet now, Hannibal does not mind. He can still see the quiver in her eyes.

They finish their wine in silence, both somehow undone by the conversation.

Bedelia walks him to the door and this time, no mysterious man awaits on the other side of the entrance. He cannot help but smile broadly as she bids him goodbye, already looking forward to seeing her next week.

As he gets into his car and turns on the engine, the fingers once again tap excitedly against the edge of the steering wheel. He is still thinking about his forward offer. And he knows she is thinking about the same. He catches the glimpse of his own reflection in the overhead mirror, the smile still present on his lips, boyish and hopeful.

Soon, he will turn it into reality.

**Author's Note:**

> This was such a fun idea to play with, especially with all the degrees of Hannibal's sulkiness. But his heart is in the right place; he is the best care she could have.  
> Thank you reading! If you liked it, please leave a comment. Feedback is love ♥ Stay safe everyone!


End file.
